


repercussions

by synapticfoe



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Be safe please, Heavy Angst, Panic Attacks, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation, Whump, do not read, i feel like shit, if you will be triggered by an extensive description of Connor falling to pieces mentally, this is a vent piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 10:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synapticfoe/pseuds/synapticfoe
Summary: "You're not designed to fail, Connor. If you do, there will be repercussions."re·per·cus·sionrēpərˈkəSHən, repərˈkəSHənnounan unintended consequence occurring some time after an event or action, especially an unwelcome one."Understood."A laugh, devoid of humor. "No, you don't. Not yet."





	repercussions

Connor doesn't remember his first moment.

That should say something, shouldn't it? That he doesn't remember. He should remember coming into being, coming into this world, but he doesn't. Because there was no  _incentive_ for him to remember such a thing.

He remembers his first order, though.

"RK800, please state your serial number."

"Model #313-248-317."

"Good."

A flood of electricity. His system notifications inform him that 77% of his circuits are surging with electric potential.

It is. Feels. It feels... something. He. Wants. He wants? He wants more.

He wants more.

"RK800 #313-248-317, please register your name."

Zoom. Adjust. Pinpoint focus. Honed hearing.

"Connor."

"My name is Connor."

"Excellent, Connor."

Everything tingles, awash with this newfound input.

Praise.

 

"You'll be sent to the Detroit Police Department, from Cyberlife, as an aide to their on-going investigation."

"I'll be the android sent by Cyberlife."

"Exactly." Clicks of a keyboard. "You'll be fully operational in a few minutes. After you pass our screening process, you'll be sent to complete your duty." A pause. "You're not designed to fail, Connor. If you do, there will be repercussions."

re·per·cus·sion

rēpərˈkəSHən, repərˈkəSHən

_noun_

  1. an unintended consequence occurring some time after an event or action, especially an unwelcome one.




"Understood."

A laugh, devoid of humor. "No, you don't. Not yet."

 

They shut him in an enclosed space. Zero lumens. Point-oh-three decibels. The magnets embedded in the capsule repel him from the sides, until he is hovering, motionless, in mid-air.

They cut his network connection. He is deaf, blind, isolated. Unaware of time.

A quick electromagnetic pulse, delivered to the base of his skull, and he is immobilized.

He cannot see, hear, touch. There is nothing to taste. Nothing to smell. Nothing to think about.

This is irrelevant. He has one objective: follow Cyberlife's instructions. And right now, he has no instructions.

...

He has no instructions.

What is he to do?

His system notifications inform him that less than 2% of his circuits are activated.

It makes him... itchy.

Less than 1%.

He doesn't like this place.

He wants to be... out. He wants. Something.

Stimulation.

Anything.

He wants the floodgates to open, to feel that rush of stimulation along every strand of copper wire.

He wants praise. Attention.

He  _needs_ it.

Less than 5%. 25% of his RAM consumed.

It doesn't make him feel... better. He doesn't feel relieved.

He tries to move, but his body isn't his own anymore.

He reaches out with his mind in the dark, but he's met with nothing but radio silence.

Up to 10%.

Just a sliver of light. An echo. Anything. Anything to analyze, to do what he was made to do, and then they'll come, and tell him what a good job he did, and they'll let him out, and they'll give him that sensation again.

Of course. This is just a test. He needs to escape, and if he's clever enough about it, that's exactly what they'll do. They'll let him back into the light, and they'll nod, and he'll have been useful. Efficient.

"I understand the premise of the exercise. I can assure you that I'll solve this, in time."

His processor reaches out for an electronic lock. A switch. A panelboard. A controller. A light. An adapter. An antenna. Another android.

Nothing.

He sends wave after wave of impulse towards his arms. Legs. Hands. Fingers. Neck.

Nothing.

He attempts to shield himself from the magnetic field, to switch his charges so they'll bring him to rest, once more, against the ground.

Nothing.

Around 20%. 50% of his RAM consumed.

How long has he been here?

He doesn't know.

...

Less than 1%.

He feels... empty.

There's nothing. Just nothing. All his attempts, met with failure.

He's not designed to fail.

Less than 5%. 60% of his RAM consumed.

He's not designed to fail. They'll be displeased. He will face repercussions. Repercussions will be unpleasant.

Around 20%. 75% of his RAM consumed.

But they know, they must know, he can't solve this one on his own. He cannot even move. How can he solve something with his acute sensors, if his sensors are immobilized?

"Excuse me. I believe I am unaware of the purpose of this exercise and of its correct solution. However, I am eager to learn. I simply ask for re-granted access to my full faculties."

Silence coated in darkness.

"I apologize for repeating my request. However, I cannot solve this without additional aid and the use of my body."

Around 30%. 75% of his RAM consumed.

"Please let me out."

It's pressing. Him.

He doesn't want to be contained in this pitch-black, muted, non-existence. He's itchy, again. It's spreading like a disease through his limbs, poignant and insistent. He needs to move.

"Please let me out."

He can't move. Why won't they let him move? His limbs are on fire. There are a hundred thousand flames, the red-hot tips of a hundred thousand needles, sinking into him, and he just needs to move, to shake them away, why can't-

Connor falls to the ground. Immediately, he scrambles to his feet, looking for an exit, a door, a crack, anything.

But there's nothing.

Just darkness and silence, and and impermeable barrier, slick and inconspicuous.

He runs his fingers over the curved surface, but there isn't any detectable texture. No corners. Just a loop of something he can't escape.

He's touching nothing.

He gouges his fingernails in, cracks his fist against the walls. It doesn't leave a dent. It doesn't make a sound.

He touches his head in horror. They broke his auditory processors. He can't hear anything. They did something to them, and he's useless now, he can't hear, and he can't see, and they did something to his lenses too, yes, there's light all around him, there must be, but he can't see it-

"PLEASE LET ME OUT!" The words carry all the force of a sledgehammer in his mind, but he can't  _hear_ them, only feel his mouth moving frantically.

He shrieks against his confinement, runs in drunken circles, following the walls, beats at them until something slick runs down his hands, mingling with the tears that overflow, down, down his cheeks.

His thirium pump starts to stutter. He can't think straight. He's shaking, hands unsteady, feet uncoordinated, panic tearing its way up his throat.

Around 60%. 82% of RAM consumed.

"No, please. Please. Please, make it stop. I don't want to be in here anymore, please, make it stop, let me out, please, I'll be good, I'll be so good, I only want to obey you, please, PLEASE JUST LET ME GO-"

Silence.

An electromagnetic pulse, delivered to the base of his skull.

He collapses on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. His eyelids are fluttering, eyes darting wildly, whites stretched desperate and terrified around the manufactured brown.

Connor lays there, broken, defeated, as they force his quivering, exhausted pump to still.

 


End file.
